Sal sits back in his chair and slowly wipes the blood from his fingers with a clean, white cloth. This past week has been a lot of fun, but like all good things, it’s about to come to an end. He kicks at the cringing, weeping brunette huddled at his feet and smiles.
“I figured you for a tougher nut to crack, honey.”
Cassandra whimpers, her voice rough from all the screaming. Oh, she’d gone into the game strong enough. A defiant tilt to her chin? He fixed that by breaking her jaw. An angry glint in her eyes? He fixed that by blackening them. She told him to go fuck himself. He fixed that by fucking her. Repeatedly. Violently. In every degrading way possible. The harder she screamed, the harder he came, which worked out just fine with him.
Venus wasn’t too pleased with that part, but he thinks he fixed that problem by letting his bot have the honors of preparing his messages to all of Cassandra’s under-bosses. Venus was quite clever with the packaging, too. Freshly severed toes tend to bleed far more than one would anticipate, and a leaking package would give away the surprise inside.
He grins at the memory of Venus cutting each toe from Cassandra’s elegant foot. His bot chose to use an old, rusty kitchen knife. Made for a messier cut, but from the look of satisfaction on her lovely face, Venus didn’t seem to mind. She enjoyed herself so much, that after he fucked her as a bleeding, sobbing Cassandra watched, he had Venus sever Cassandra’s thumbs – a special gift for dear old, drug king, daddy.
Two thumbs up did catch the attention of one Mr. Priam Nathans, and initial shots were fired. Pawns were taken down, otherwise useless junkies finally having purpose as cannon fodder. And maybe a few buildings, alright, blocks of buildings, were burned by both sides. Small prices to pay for keeping a hand in the London drug pot, and Sal wanted BOTH hands in.
Cassandra was right – he was living beneath his means, and he’s decided that he’s tired of it. He wants the castle on the hill, and he’ll be damned if he’s not gonna take it from Nathans. It was time for the guard to change. Le roi est mort; vive le roi, and all that shit.
He’s got hell of an ace up his sleeve, and it’s time to lay her on the table. Fuck, he’s already laid her on his own table…and sofa, and floor, and sink, and everywhere else except the bed. He kicks his pretty little ace in her bruised and broken ribs.
“It’s time to see your pops, honey. Let him take a good look at how well his little girl held onto his empire.”